On the misty path to nowhere, We all trudge along alone, Hoping to see the light fade in, And lead us towards our home.
On the misty path to nowhere, We are forced to think, What is the meaning who are we really, What connects us, what’s the link.
On the misty path to nowhere, It’s finally your time, A new road forms, you follow along, You begin the treacherous climb.
On the misty path to nowhere, Your presence is now gone, Those people who still walk there, Wonder what new trail you’re on.
On the misty path to nowhere, Those people will soon find out, That that new track they’ve always dreamed of, Is far more complex than they know about.
Romeo and Juliet, The perfect love story, Eyes meet, hands touch, If only the end was less gory.
I dream each night, As I curl in my bed, Of their two sorry fates, The lovers who ended up dead.
But I know they’re not real, It’s all just a play, But ‘O, I am fortunes fool!’ And I’ll dream of them anyway.
Don’t stop swinging, Mum will say it’s time to go, So hold on tight and shut your eyes, Or else she might say no.
Your heart begins to flutter, As the saddest part of the day, Is when she calls from the bench, ‘Only five minutes left of play.’
Now you sit on that swing, Your hair flowing behind, You’re all alone, just you and your head, And there’s no one there to call time.
So you sit on that swing for hours on end, Thinking it will make you feel free, But really all it does is remind you, You’re on your own and that’s the way it’ll always be.
An old book, water stained from a bath, crayon marks along the pages from careless hands, spine cracked and pages crinkled. The imperfections were beautiful, treasured, funny, perfect in their own way. The book tells many stories.
Now, new books, pristine, pages straight as if they’d never been read, spine cautiously maintained, cover glossy and unmarked, hands are always washed before reading. The books tell no story.
That old book sits at the back of the shelf, waiting, watching over as, with time, life becomes far more complicated and there is a desperation to be perfect. Conjured in heads, forced into brains and execution of souls to produce the ‘perfect product’. It doesn’t exist, but our own cycle of insanity prevents the old books from being on display and puts the new ones in front.
To all the poets, I know who you are, Hiding behind titles and pages and scars, Wondering if you’ll ever see the day, When someone picks up a pen and prevents your decay.
So here’s to you, Masters of words, Who twist letters and limericks around fingers and curl Up in your bed each night before sleep And hope that one day you will feel complete.
Dear Pillow Case Face,
Pillow case face, Tears or rain, You try to hold the facade down, Try to prevent the disgrace.
Pillow case face, Foe or friend, You fooled us once more, With your tricks, you leave no trace.
Pillow case face, Dying inside, Carrying all that weight, For no one gave you an embrace.
Pillow case face, Who are you really? Not as fluffy as you seem, Your just trying to not to displace,
Pillow case face, You see the world go by, Eyes beaming, grinning, But just trying not to lose the race.
Pillow case face, I’m sorry, I am, I’ll do my best for you, I’ll give everything to show your case.
From, The person who knows that the biggest smile often hides the saddest soul.
Little tool dresses, Pink shoes, hair in a bow, Ballet, picture books, milk teeth, Magic.
Rain pours down my cheek, No umbrella held above my head, I have to hold it for myself, if I’d remembered. Licking chapped lips, teeth chatter, Black coat flutters in the wind.
Crawling into bed, no longer a chore, Now a welcome rest from the chains of existence. Eyes flutter closed, mascara under eyes, School books strewn across the floor, Black tears stain the pillows.
Little tool dress in the back of the closet, School shoes, no bow- it’s weird, Book club, Jekyll and Hyde, stained teeth, I wake.
Is this what feels like to grow up?
Hands pressed against the window, Splatter of rain on my sunken eyes, Breathless, waiting for the slam that would never come.
Rain water gathered at my shoes, pooling at my dirty soles, burnt socks and bruised ankles, Milk teeth memories rushing back with the whir of the storm, I drink them up.
I try to grasp at this water, Scoop with my blistered hands and splintered nails, trying to return the water to the clouds.
The window won’t close, there’s no turning back. I spit, stumble back, milk teeth strewn across the floor, my hand clasps my mouth. Rain pours in.
As a child I often walked through the evergreen wood, with trees and rocks and moss and flowers that grew into the sky. I would sit on the stumps of trees, by mole hills and fox holes and birds nests and just think about the beauty of the world. How the sky seems to caress the oozing mud and how the clouds would comfort the sun as they float by, softening its harsh gaze. The world was full of wonder, a wonder only felt in the woods. The city was too harsh, too many sharp lines, edges, holes to fall down, stairs to climb, no smooth hillside or rounded branches just an endless violence that left you tired from fighting. So, when I turned 10 years old I buried my heart in the woods, covered it in dirt and planted a singular daisy on top.
As the years past I soon forgot about my heaven that made the devil of the city scowl in jealousy and mindless fury for, to them, it was inconceivable for one to choose the base of existence over ‘the world of bright lights’. I was blinded by those lights and they made me forget the joy of my childhood.
One day, I returned to the forest, a mother to a 3 year old boy, with picnic basket and blanket in my older, harsher hand. He walked to a shaded patch of land and picked a singular daisy that seemed to grow into the sky. Suddenly, the clouds comforted the sun and the sky caressed the oozing mud and I was at once enlightened. ‘I buried my heart here you know? And I wish I’d never left it.”
